


Welcoming Committee

by Trelkez



Series: Orchard Lane [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trelkez/pseuds/Trelkez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I miss the days when I thought Derek was the strangest person on this block," Stiles says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcoming Committee

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel of sorts to A Blossoming Romance. Won't make sense unless you've read the first one.

Stiles knocks on the front door of 328, a casserole dish tucked under one arm.

He's done the neighborhood welcoming ritual a couple times now; their dead-end stretch of Orchard Lane draws supernaturals like nowhere else in Beacon Hills. In the two years since the dryads moved into 327, Orchard Lane has added an incubus, a wereharpy, a pair of kobaloi, four vampires, three sirens ( _triplets_ ), and Lydia.

Stiles was obsessed with the break in pattern for two months. Then Lydia turned out to be a banshee.

The neighborhood grapevine has no idea what the guy in 328 is. Stiles thinks Betty knows — she only ever asks him to welcome new neighbors when they're something she doesn't want to deal with, like the kobaloi and the sirens — but she isn't telling.

Stiles agreed to do it anyway. He isn't sure _why_ he agreed to do it, but here he is, waiting on god-knows-what's doorstep, covered dish in hand.

The guy in 328 opens the door, squinting in the sunlight. He's wearing fraying jeans, a wrinkled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and an ink-stained gray vest. His hair is long and unkempt, and he looks like he hasn't slept, shaved, or eaten in days. Stiles doesn't know what species type all of that indicates: a ghoul, maybe, or a grad student.

"Hey, I'm Stiles." He offers the guy his free hand. "I live across the street in 329."

"Dave," says Dave. He doesn't take Stiles' hand. "You know your boyfriend is a werewolf, yeah?"

Stiles slowly lowers his hand. "What's it to you?"

"Just making sure you knew," Dave says, shrugging. "There's, like, a fuckton of shit here, man. Vampires, man, I _hate_ vampires." Stiles makes a shushing gesture. Those assholes can hear for blocks. "There's a fucking huge nest of Glindas three houses down, what the _fuck_." Glindas? Does he mean the coven of witches in 322? "And fucking _fairies_ , man, fuck some fucking fairies."

"Fairies," Stiles repeats, trying to decide who on the block might be mistaken for fairies. "The sisters in 333?"

"Nah, sirens are all right," Dave says. Spoken like a man who hasn't nearly been seduced by triplets. "I mean Flora and Fauna in 325."

"Flora and Fauna?" Stiles glances over his shoulder at 325. "Betty and Joyce?"

"That's what I'm saying, man." Dave stabs an ink-smeared finger at the dish Stiles is holding. "I am sure as hell not eating one fucking bite of fucking fairy tuna casserole."

"I think it's vegetarian," Stiles says.

Dave closes the door in Stiles' face.

Stiles stands there for a moment, trying to decide what to do next.

Dave opens the door again.

"Oh, but, hey, man, nothing personal, nice to meet you," Dave says.

"I miss the days when I thought Derek was the strangest person on this block," Stiles says.

"First impressions are usually right," Dave says. Before Stiles can decide whether or not to be insulted on Derek's behalf, Dave disappears into the house, waving for Stiles to follow. "Come on in, I'll get you a soda or something. Leave that veggie shit outside, it isn't invited in."

Stiles only hesitates a moment before abandoning Betty's casserole dish on the doorstep.

*

"Stiles!" Betty's smile dims when she sees the dish in his hands. "Oh, dear, is he not partial to eggplant?"

"I told you not to bother with that one," Joyce says, taking the dish from Stiles and emptying it into the trash.

"Maybe lasagna would be better," Betty says, casting a sad look at the trash.

"Don't think that would help. Dave isn't a food from strangers kind of guy." Stiles folds his arms and rocks back onto his heels. "Hey, can I ask you a favor?"

"Anything," Betty says.

"No," Joyce says, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"I'm going to need a hollow pumpkin the size of a carriage, a new outfit, and at least three mice in tiny clothes."

Joyce gives a loud, exasperated sigh.

"Whatever you say, Cinderella," she says, moving toward him with her hand raised, fingers poised to snap. "What color would you like your dress to be? Pink? Blue?"

"I'll have you know I look fantastic in pink," Stiles says, nervously eyeing her fingers. She isn't really going to fingersnap him into a ball gown, is she? _Is_ she? It wouldn't be his first time wearing a dress, but he has a feeling she wouldn't stop there.

"He really thinks I can do it," Joyce says, examining him closely.

"Oh, stop," Betty says, pushing Joyce's hand down. "Did you just figure this out, honey?"

"Please," Joyce says. "Dave told him."

"I could have figured it out," Stiles defends himself. "Eventually."

"You're very smart, dear," Betty says, her tone and supportive smile indicating that he would never, ever have figured it out on his own.

"You made me kill Derek's flower," Stiles says, glaring at her. Damn, it's hard to glare at Betty; it feels like he's being a little shit to his sweet old grandmother. He tries glaring at Joyce instead. There, that's better. "That time with the lawnmower and the spade, you set that up. I thought it was just Betty, but it was both of you."

"Joycie can be terribly devious," Betty says proudly, smiling at Joyce.

"I don't see you arguing with the results, kid," Joyce says, beginning to sound bored with it all. "You needed a nudge."

"Maybe," Stiles admits. He and Derek are both intensely socially awkward and Derek ( _still_ ) prides himself on being a nocturnal recluse. It could've taken them years, if it'd ever happened. "I don't understand _why_. Is someone keeping score? Are you being paid to hook people up?"

"Your grumpy boyfriend isn't paid to be a werewolf, he just is," Joyce says.

"And you're just a _fairy godmother_." Stiles stops and repeats it slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth. "Fairy godmother. Fairy godmother. _Fairy_. You're a fu—" Dammit, Dave. "A freaking _fairy_."

"So what?" Joyce waves a hand dismissively. "Everyone is _something_ around here, does it matter?"

"I'm human," Stiles protests.

"We'll see," Joyce says.

"Dave said you two are the reason all the supernaturals turn up here." Stiles tries to glare Betty down again. She smiles encouragingly. "He said fairies are creature magnets." He also said fairies are _nosy, interfering assholes_ , but Stiles will leave that part out for now. "Is that true?"

"Now, Stiles," Betty says, patting him on the arm. "I love our neighborhood, and I know you do too. Does it matter why our little community has built itself here?"

"What _is_ Dave, anyway? He makes amazing lemonade, but I don't think that's a creature feature. He knows what everyone on Orchard Lane is — he knows about you, he knows Derek is a werewolf. He owns sixteen different typewriters and absolutely no furniture. I think he was stoned."

"Dave is an elf," Joyce says.

"Oh, sure, because _those_ exist," Stiles says, snorting.

Joyce gestures at herself as though to say, _hello, fairy here_.

"Come on. No." Stiles shakes his head. "Elves are, are Legolas, all tall and sparkly and pretty. Have you _seen_ this guy? He looks like he's working on his thesis."

"Elves are hyperobservant and nearly immortal," Joyce says, mouth twisting in disgust. "They tend toward paranoia, hoarding, and extremely poor manners. We can only hope he moves on quickly."

"I like Dave," Stiles says. _Does_ he like Dave? The jury is still out on that one. "Is this a fairies versus elves thing?"

"Of course not," Betty says, too quickly.

" _Fairy godmother_ ," Stiles says again, not over it yet.

"If that's what you want to call us, dear," Betty says.

"So, wait," Stiles says, throwing his arms out wide. "Is Cinderella _real?_ I mean, was she?"

"Probably," Joyce says, blowing Stiles' mind. "Most of those stories have some basis in truth."

"Just to be clear, _can_ you snap your fingers and summon a pumpkin carriage?"

Joyce gives him a dirty look.

"That's not a no," Stiles says.

"Here," Betty says, pressing a tin of cookies into his hands. "Take these home with you, and by the time you finish them, you'll feel all better."

"Thanks, Oracle," Stiles mutters around a mouthful of cookie, clutching the tin.

Betty looks shifty. Wait, was reference intentional? Stiles' actual fairy godmother just made a Matrix reference. The day can't get any weirder.

*

Dave is on Stiles' couch, drinking one of Stiles' beers.

"Uh, hey, Dave," Stiles says, wondering how the hell he's going to get a stoned elf out of his house before Derek gets home and goes all _strange creatures in my territory, must destroy_. "What, um, what's up, buddy?"

"He said you told him to drop by 'whenever,'" Derek says, emerging from the kitchen. Crap, too late.

"I may have said that, yeah," Stiles says, sighing. "I thought he'd give me at least an hour before he took me up on it." Dave is watching soccer. He doesn't seem to know Stiles is there. "Hold on. I'll get him out of here."

"He can stay." Derek twists the cap off a bottle of beer and hands the bottle to Stiles. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Back up," Stiles says, staring. "He can _stay?_ "

"If you want. I don't care," Derek says. Coming from Mr. No, You Can't Have a Party, You Know How I Hate Strangers in the House, Stiles, that's — huge. That's the Derek equivalent of him making Dave a friendship bracelet and loading it up with BFFs 4-Eva charms.

Are Stiles' misanthropic werewolf boyfriend and his paranoid, fairy-hating elf neighbor _bros_ now? Jesus, he'd only been next door for _twenty minutes_.

"Betty and Joyce are our fairy godmothers," Stiles says, taking a long pull from the beer bottle.

"Dave told me," Derek says. Fucking Dave. That was Stiles' story to tell. "He knows about everyone. He knows Mrs. Kelson is a selkie, Stiles. She swore to us she hadn't even told her husband about that, how did Dave know?"

"Did he tell you about the Navins in 325?" Derek shakes his head. "Weretigers."

"You're making that up," Derek says after a moment.

"I'm not, but Dave might be." Stiles gestures at Dave with his beer. "He showed me a typewriter that he claimed was a gift from the Grapes of Wrath guy."

"He told me he smoked hashish with Tolkien in 1932 and that Arwen was based on one of his ex-girlfriends," Derek says. He smirks, playing it off, but Stiles knows Derek too well to miss the undercurrent of, _I think he's lying, but just in case he isn't, we're keeping him forever_.

Everything makes sense now. Dave appealed to Derek's inner lit nerd; of course Derek is letting him hang out. Derek is probably hoping that if he gives Dave enough of Stiles' beer, Dave will start telling him blatant lies about Hemingway.

"I'd take anything he says with a grain of salt," Stiles says, hopelessly charmed by the stubborn set of Derek's jaw. An hour from now they're going to be watching Lord of the Rings with bonus elf commentary, Stiles _knows_ they are.

"Was he right about Betty and Joyce?"

"Yes," Stiles admits. "This entire neighborhood is a supernatural singles mixer and the two of them are the emcees. You and me. The dryads and the undines. Mrs. Kelson and the late Mr. Kelson, back in the seventies. The _seventies_ , Derek."

They stare at Dave.

Dave stares at the television.

"What kind of an elf name is Dave?"

Derek shrugs. "What kind of a fairy name is Joyce? Those probably aren't the names they were born with."

That's a fair point. Do all of Stiles' neighbors have secret, cooler names?

"Do youhave a secret werewolf name?" Stiles elbows Derek. "You'd tell me if you had a secret werewolf name, right?"

"Okay, Stiles, you got me," Derek says, folding his arms. "Derek isn't my _real_ name."

"It's Moonshimmer, isn't it? I thought that was Magnolia's way of assigning you a ridiculous hippie dryad name, but no, she figured out your secret." Stiles' hippie dryad name is Tuesday. _My parents did too much elderflower in the 60s_ , Magnolia said once, serene. Stiles' _life_ , honest to god.

"If you ever tell Laura about that, you'll pay," Derek says.

"Whatever you say, Moonshimmer," Stiles says.

"I didn't know your name was Moonshimmer," Dave says, twisting to look at Derek over the back of the couch. "That's cool, man."

"I hate you," Derek sighs.

"I know," Stiles says, kissing Derek's cheek. "Go nerd out. I'll order pizza."

"Make mine veggie supreme, yeah? Cool," Dave says, turning back to the television.

Derek steps between Stiles and the living room, breaking his line of sight on Dave. He shakes his head at Stiles, hands raised defensively.

" _I'll_ order the pizza, you go to Lydia's," Derek says. He drops his voice to a whisper. "You can't kill Dave until _after_ we watch Fellowship of the Ring."

"I _knew_ it," Stiles hisses, poking Derek's chest. "Fine. Call me if you need someone to help you get rid of him."

"Fine," Derek whispers back, leaning in for a kiss.

"That's so nice," Dave says loudly, startling them apart. "I haven't seen gay werewolves in love like you guys since Ginsberg invited me to—"

" _No_ ," Stiles says, holding up a hand.  Derek gives him another quick kiss, and then Stiles flees before Dave can drop any more names.

"What about Ginsberg?" Derek says as he closes the door behind Stiles.

Instead of going to Lydia's right away, Stiles knocks on Betty and Joyce's door again.

Joyce answers the door, arms folded. She's incandescently smug, radiating _I told you so_ with a force Stiles' dad could only aspire to.

"You weren't close personal friends with Mark Twain or anything, were you?"

"No, but I did set up Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton," Joyce says. Stiles has never heard of Richard Burton. Joyce makes a disappointed noise, grasping the edge of the door. "That was a joke. Go home and Google it."

For the second time that day, someone closes a door in Stiles' face.

*

The kitchen lights are off. That usually means Derek is out in the garden, doing his _I am the night, fear me as I relax amongst the flowers and bask in the smell of jasmine_ routine.

Stiles weaves through the house, still ever-so-slightly drunk on Lydia's red wine.

"Derek?" He opens the back door, peering out into the darkness. After a moment, a light clicks on: a small, round lantern on the patio table, Derek's concession to Stiles' human eyes. 

Derek is slouched down in a deck chair with a paperback book open on his chest. Stiles can't make out the title, but Derek doesn't own all that many paperbacks. Pratchett, maybe? Stiles doesn't want to know what improbable tales Dave told Derek about Pratchett.

"Sorry an elf followed me home today," Stiles says, dropping down onto a chair and lightly nudging his foot against Derek's.

"Arwen and Legolas were horrible people," Derek says, nudging back. Uh-oh. Sounds like the extremely limited edition elf commentary wasn't all Derek hoped it would be.

"Dave is full of shit," Stiles says soothingly, leaning forward to pat Derek's knee. "Come on, let's go to bed."

*

"Loads of dryads write books," Dave says.

"Wood nymphs don't work in paper-based mediums," Magnolia says, frowning at him. She'd never met an elf before; are they all like this?

"That's what _you_ think, okay, but you don't _know_ ," Dave says. He starts ticking authors off on his fingers. "Mary Shelley? Dryad. Virginia Woolf? Dryad. J—"

Time to open another bottle of elderberry wine. She has a feeling this is going to take a while. 


End file.
